The Sin of Innocence
by Phantom Ou
Summary: At the sound of her voice, you cringe; she calls for you, incessantly. The abyss of madness beckons you with a jagged, sinister grin. Resilient chains bind the soul you have so foolishly forsaken, for all eternity. Let this lesson be known: Once you have sacrificed the bliss of simplicity, there is no turning back. Rated T for dark themes.
1. Prologue

**The Sin of Innocence - Chapter 1: _Prologue_**

**A/N: Hello, everybody. I've revived from the dead to remind others that, yes, I still exist. I've finally decided to start a small****—**or large, depending on how much time and effort I will invest into it**—**project to kick off the new year. At long last, 2012 is over, and hopefully, people's insanity will gradually decrease. Anyway, my stories customarily focus on Alois, and this is no exception. This project, I have yet to delineate and capture the entire plot, so it should be an adventure for the both of us. (There is a need for more Alois and OC stories, or my community will wither and rot.)

**As of late, I've been interested in the supernatural. And thus, a large dose of that element shall be added into the story. I'm particularly intrigued by the concept of vampires—and, I feel like I must emphasize this every time, but I am not referring to the sparkly kind (seriously, that saga has severely altered people's views of vampires)—but the ancient, mythological creatures. My desire is to explore more on this species, and the setting of the series, that is the Victorian era, is ideal for this.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

Innocence is a blissful thing. It is an unruptured beauty.

It is not meant to be broken.

At least, they say, not as cruelly as this.

Because the moment innocence disperses, your view of the world, too, will change just as drastically. The world will emerge, it will reveal its genuine colors, and so will its inhabitants.

Disgusting creatures, they really are, hiding preposterously behind the upturned lips, the soft whispers of comfort.

The world you have lived in suddenly seems chimerical; a wildly fanciful dimension that truly does not exist. It is a mere, childish reflection of the actual realm you are dwelling within. A tantalizing means of escape from the rotten place, filled with contemptible savages.

Time is defied; it is not meant to be so early. This unorthodox tearing of me from my illusory reveries has not been planned to occur.

I was still too young.

But, what better did I know? I was once a kid, naive and ingenuous.

Shielded, I was, with my limited knowledge of the world. And thus, I ventured. I explored. I inquired. I wished to apprehend intuitively, the complex workings of this place we reside in. I yearned to understand its constituents, and to experience myself all of its wonders unfolding before my eyes.

Nature was my friend, they say. I was utterly fascinated with its sophisticated yet peculiarly _simple_ functioning. A principal cycle, is what it is. Birth, growth, then death. All was subject to the domination of Time, yet in each passing moment, so many little things can happen. A green leaf descends from a tree, a squirrel scurries by, a bird in the distance soars, and the brilliant sunlight kisses the forest.

I was mesmerized, by everything. I was a silent observer, an inconspicuous spectator who lacked imposition on the tranquilizing atmosphere. It was breathtaking for a child like me, to scrutinize such fine details.

Then, a flutter.

By my ear.

I looked obliquely, and my vision captured something wondrous, at the very least.

Iridescent colors, much more resplendent than the rainbow itself.

It was moving quickly, rippling as it flaps its wings, the colors undulating along with it as well. It took the form of a butterfly.

A beautiful butterfly.

I remember the air being caught in my throat, my gasp truncated by the mere astonishment of beholding such a view. Enthralled, I inclined toward its direction, an invisible force pulling me to it, emboldening me by instilling curiosity.

I should not stray too far, but my mind was elsewhere, my gaze collectively pinned to that fascinating butterfly.

Thus, logic was thrust aside, abandoned without a second of hesitation, and I followed.

One foot at a time, I stepped. Slowly, carefully, so that I would not induce loud noises that would frighten the butterfly to take immediate flight. My feet brushed against the grass that was accentuated with the gold of the sun. I pursued my guide, plunging into the divisions of the forest.

I do not recall how long I had traveled, but the butterfly led me to a clearing.

That moment was the milestone, when my innocence was appropriated from me.

For, that marked the first time I saw _her_.

A girl was situated by a large tree, where its dense roots tangled and emerged from the ground, dusted with dirt. The sunlight peered intrusively between gaps formed by the intertwination of the branches, riddling her body with mottled white patches.

She was queer, even my little self could discern that much. Her integumentary covering was pale, dreadfully so, for it held a phantasmal lack of intensity of color. Her hair was long, tumbling into black curls that reached the full extent of her back.

She seemed to be immersed in a heavy slumber, as her eyes were closed and her neck was slightly tilted to the side. The surroundings remained undisturbed by her presence, as though she was merely an addition and nothing more; birds proceeded with accelerating through the sky and the intermittent rustle of a nearby bush signified the excursion of a purposeful creature.

Nonetheless her peaceful situation against the tree, when the butterfly flew over, easily and unhesitatingly as though an inherent connection tied them both together, and rest upon her shoulder, that was when I began to take notice of two important factors.

First, the remarkable girl was entirely unclothed. Where I was raised, the aspect of nudity alone was vehemently censured and warranted unnecessary attention. Simply, it was celebrated as a transgression of morals, particularly for females, to expose such secrecy. For whatever reason I did not fully grasp the meaning of then, the women that unashamedly display these sort of things were often considered "promiscuous harlots."

The second factor, however, seized my attention and trampled my respiration as though a cold, relentless fist had clutched my windpipe and painfully pressed.

For, there was blood.

Streaks of blood dribbled down from her chin, and trickled from there down to her chest; patently resembling flaring ribbons that encompassed her in a red, morbid fashion.

The girl seemed to struggle for air, sporadically hitching her breath and gasping, but the curtains to her eyes never raised to reveal what was hidden beneath. The butterfly that alight upon her shoulder appeared to have increased her anxiety; it generated more prominent movements from her, for her fingers—accoutered with the disturbing sanguinary liquid—drove into fists that viciously clenched the soil.

"Stronger..."

The single word passed from her lips in the most furtive manner, that I nearly did not perceive its transitory exit from the throbbing corners of her throat. But, her voice—strung with an alluring, melodic excellence—inveigled me to her, much like how water draws the moon; an irresistible attraction.

My feet possessed a will of their own, and advanced to the intriguing girl. I stopped before her, careful to distance myself by a least a foot, but sufficiently curious that I did not step away any further than that.

The occasionally spasms that wrecked her body came to a cessation when I approached, as though she was holding her breath expectantly.

"Miss," my voice erupted from within the depths of my chest.

From her, a slight, fleeting and evanescent twitch, at my call.

"Miss, are you injured?" I kept my tone level and equable.

Silence ensued, and I discerned that as an invitation to incline toward her; she looked harmless and innocuous, for she was submerged in serenity, hardly changing her position if not ever.

Officious I might have been, but my childish impulses reigned. My fingers, insignificant projections from the palm, delicately swept against her cheekbone to actuate some type of acknowledgement from the odd girl.

"Excuse me, Miss..."

A sudden, convulsive utterance was extracted from her lips, but I failed to comprehend what she was trying to say. She began to percolate; beads of sweat, lustrous when basked in the sunlight, exuded, and shudders of her body frame grew turbulent. Whatever had agitated her, I was not aware of, but I was stunned to a fixed, stationary stand while observing her violent efforts.

Tentatively, I leaned forward and tilted to the side until my left ear was close to her mouth, and my sight was cast on the butterfly that had obliviously perched on the suffering individual.

"May I ask that you speak louder, Miss?" I murmured. "I didn't quite hear you before..."

"Stronger... need... stronger... hurry..."

Then, pale hands forcibly grasped my shoulders to deny the opportunity of escape. The vigor of her limbs, despite their ostensible feebleness, was astounding, and I quickly fell prey to her staggering power.

Immediately, my instincts blazed, like an abrupt burst of flame; something innate bleated that peril was impending.

_Run._

I wanted to. I needed to.

But, I could not. At all. Stricken with overwhelming fear, I was frozen, susceptible and predisposed to the bare and abhorrent face of danger. It mercilessly butchered my senses and penetrated me, infusing the thick ink of mind-crippling poison into my veins.

Then, out of my peripheral vision, I saw her eyes open—the two orbs depicted a grotesque hue of gold that was glazed over with menacing _hunger_, as though those voracious eyes had the potential to swallow one whole simply by gazing into them. Hopelessly compelled, I was struck with rustic wonderment.

The margins of her mouth parted, ever so gradually, and protruding was _fangs_. Her tongue slid across the dry lips to moisten them, cleanly swiping some of the blood before returning to its origin.

The strange girl smiled, as though the taste was enticing, and it was a nefarious expression that frightened me profoundly.

I realized, then, it could not have been her blood.

I could feel her soft, breathy whisper against the ear that I had so asininely offered:

"You're perfect."

They grabbed me, unscrupulously, and in such a expeditious manner that I could not react; her fangs, they pierced into the side of my throat, nearly crushing me from the intensity alone.

And that was when my innocence shattered.

My mind accelerated through innumerable thoughts of death, my heart pounded erratically, my hands were cold and clammy, and a prickling sensation riddled my skin—I was trembling tumultuously, feeling as though I was being _eaten_ alive. Raw, vulnerable, and excruciatingly exposed.

I could not assemble the strength to shout for help, to even lift a finger. Vertiginous, my head was whirling eccentrically; ineradicable blurs blinded me, and a numbing heat that I could not describe seared me from where she was feeding off of my essence. My energy depleted, greedily consumed, relentlessly devoured. Effete and destitute, I could not respire or articulate a single word of protest.

Pain. Agony. It hurt so much, and I was shaking, succumbing, yielding to the prospect of perishing as long as I did not have to endure the torment I was cruelly subjected to any longer.

_Make it go away! Make it go away_—

The deleterious fangs plucked themselves from my throat, freeing me from their bind and yet I was far from feeling relief in any form.

_Master_, her voice purred.

From the inside of my head.

The butterfly took flight.

Then, I screamed.


	2. Extravagant Appraisal

**The Sin of Innocence - Chapter 2: ****_Extravagant Appraisal_**

**This chapter took a while to design, because it was essential to establish the premise and the background, and to familiarize the reader with the basic components of the story. I am purposely opting for a slow and steady pace, so that the plot would be more consistent. This story, I am going to address it with all seriousness, and it is truly a wondrous experience thus far; I am going to explore different regions and dimensions, different scopes in characters, and topics I have never delved into detail before. In this chapter, there will be religious implications, and although they are not instigating, I would like to stress anyway that my intention is not to provoke anyone with their own separate views.**

**As for anyone wondering who is the narrative of the prologue, it will be clarified soon; and, it will not—it ****_should _****not be a surprise at all, I assure you. And, I thank you all who have decided to join me in this adventure, your feedback were warmly received.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

**15 December 1889; London, England**

Dark and dismal clouds swathe the area, much like obscure bands of linen wrapping around the upper atmosphere of the earth, to film it with an eerie hue. In moments, rain is called forth upon; its relentless drops deluge the city of London, actuating for scurrying rats to take cover in the gutters, and for its residents to firmly lock their doors and windows, in hopes of denying the torrents. Formidable lightning streaks across the sky, lasting for a mere second, enveloping the entire city in a blinding illumination, before dying. Yet following in succession, to reinstate its former glory, is a staggering series of thunder that rumbles and roars, to which all ears can perceive its prolonged peal.

The streets, only made resplendent by a few flickering lanterns dotting along their stretch, are grimy and desolate. Dilapidated and adjacent buildings delineate the expansion of the public thoroughfares. Several curtains flutter close, shutting off the light radiating from respective windows, having been tugged by petulant occupants who wish to obstruct the utterance the thunder by any means available.

As more and more sources of light dissipate, the realm of the clouds seems to have fortified its hold on the lonely city. Cold, piercing and bleak is the wind that has decided to accompany the tumultuous downpour of rain.

Nonetheless, two souls are brave enough to venture through the violent weather. Perhaps, what has incited them to ignore even the bitterest of the state of their surroundings is the gratifying prospect of payment for their hard work.

The hurrying pair of men, garbed in wool coats and Valenki felt boots, arduously haul along a sizable case; each one taking the opposite end and propping it over his shoulder. Although substantially veiled by their hoods, tousled black fringes cleave to their drawn, angular faces. Eyes, bloodshot and sunken with weariness and lack of sleep, glow with an unfathomable shade of brown. Matted and knotted beards rest on the surfaces of their chins and jawbones.

The muffled sounds of their padded shoes are smothered by the vociferous howls of the wind. The frigid gale manages to penetrate the woolly integuments, and its slicing sensation induces shivers as the hairs on the men's skins bristle. The individual with the lesser stature of the two, also the one guiding the way, evidently does not appreciate the horripilation, and grunts disdainfully:

"C'mon now, Vladimir! _торопись_! We ain't gonna git nowhere if we don't finish luggin' this. That English man pays loads just ta git his 'ands on priceless things like this."

The thick, foreign accent is readily distinguishable, as well as the gruff and hoarse voice. Their tongue they speak in is of an entirely separate constitution of syllables and arbitrary sounds. It is a patent, incontrovertible truth that these men do not belong here; in fact, they would stand out like a sore thumb if any were present to grant attention to them.

The man addressed as Vladimir is a tall, bulky man with impressive dimensions, and he can easily vanquish his counterpart with size alone. His nose is particularly large, and there is a bump at the tip of it. A ghastly scar, aligned with hasty stitches, imprints itself at the man's left eyebrow, extending to his upper lip. The disfiguring, grotesque blemish, however, supplements greatly to the dangerous aura that encompasses the stalwart man.

The pelting of the rain is seemingly interminable, soaking his coat that is, at large, ineffectual at blocking out the cold, and the querulous Vladimir huskily mutters a complaint, "Zakhar. I doubt this is worth it. Can't we just keep this beauty ta ourselves? Why we gotta sell it?"

Zakhar clicks his tongue in exasperation, while vigorously pulling the relatively heavy case along. The burden is made less laborious to carry with the aid of Vladimir, who merely takes a hold of most of it. Zakhar circumspectly studies the isolated streets, which are subject to the abuse of the turbulence of the atmosphere, and is careful to stick closely to the handful of remaining lanterns.

With his saturated fringes generating droplets of water to dribble down his face, Zakhar hisses out a tedious sigh, his condensed breath materializing into a small fog. His tone is, more or less, a drawl, as though he has reiterated this many times before, "Keep it ourselves? Damn, we can't even git the lid ta budge! What makes you think it can be of any use to us? Might as well just git rid of this thing, and git something useful outta it ta feed our stomachs. That English man, we just gotta git the money and give what he asked for. Besides..."

"Besides what?" Vladimir urges, after considering Zakhar's explanation and conceding to it silently; it has been impossible to uncover the hindering lid that ensconces the unimaginable wonders tucked within. Now, if even _he_ was unable to peel off the lid, with his strength that is known for being insurmountable, then they are out of luck.

Frowning, Zakhar bites down on his nether lip that has been lightly glazed over with frost. "Besides... I don't even wanna keep this thing. I dunno but... this thing sure gives me the creeps."

An uncanny silence transpires, when neither of them has anything to articulate. It is indisputable, however, that this mysterious case flags an enigma; something perplexing yet frustratingly inaccessible. For, how can they suppose to learn a single thing about it if its contents are sealed shut from them? The answer is self-evident: there is no plausible way. And thus, it remains an unsolvable puzzle, a secret that only a sacred few can ever hope to understand. But judging by the restlessness of his partner, and his brisk, impetuous pace, it is as though he does not desire to comprehend it, bur rather, is trying to disencumber himself from it.

They have been loyal companions for heavens know how long. They are a risky, audacious pair that are willing to embark on any kinds of adventures together, no matter how challenging or utterly preposterous they may be. And that is why Vladimir is familiar with all sides of Zakhar, personality-wise, and for _this_ to instill a bit of fear and tentativeness in the bold and daring Zakhar, well, then it must be frightening to an inconceivable level.

If one was to lay sight on this case, it would typically be estimated as nothing more than an invaluable antique. It is composed of mahogany wood as its basis, and it possesses six sides tapered around the shoulders. It is fastened with taut, silver chains—restraints that are impracticable to remove—that glow mistily under the angry, piercing stare of the moon. Gilded and aureate, the embellished case had attracted the feasting of innumerable eyes on several occasions before—of course, that had only enforced the necessity to tighten the security of this peculiar object. Fortunately at the moment though, with the tenacious embrace of the night's cloak, its beauty is not promulgated to the extent that there is a need to conceal it.

As the designated building looms nearer, a protuberant sign can be perceived containing its name—although, it is written in English, Zakhar has compared it to the symbols he has chased to memory—and they verify that it is, indeed, where they are obliged to enter. Instinctively, their hands grip the case, curling the fingers around its sides, as though to prevent it from running. Even though Zakhar is frightened of this recondite thing, it is precious, in an unfathomable sense, for they have gone through great lengths to smuggle it to London.

This case is the reason for the series of hardships that they were constrained to experience firsthand. For, the case is not only precious to them, but a few others as well. Before he can stop himself, an eccentric and uninvited replay of memories blossom in the sole of his mind; pervasive and highly retentive, its potent effect spreads throughout his body, paralyzing it to a freeze.

* * *

**07 November 1888; Ural region near Ekaterinburg, Russia**

To begin with, Zakhar and Vladimir are proficient miners that had excavated the earth and trespassed its solid barrier, to steal from it its hidden riches since a time long forgotten. It was their means of living, of survival in their frostbitten country.

Russia, she was a home to many; and the grandeur of her minacious winters have consolidated her people's hearts and minds, as they learn to withstand even her most pernicious gelidity that have blighted the crops and other immobile forms of life. Despite the long-continued withering and rotting, her inured people have prevailed and worked on to establish and refine ways of subsistence.

Her people have discerned that the key to existing is wealth, and wealth itself. With opulence, one can slip away from the clenches of death that have merged with the forthcoming snow, and prosper.

And thus, when tantalizing rumors ignited about abundant deposits of untold gold are lying right beneath their feet, myriads of people began to invade the subterranean sphere, much more actively than ever before; invigorated and rejuvenated, to which smiles have finally emerged to the hardened surface. Perhaps, one may conjecture that the account of gold is a complete fabrication, a shameful untruth only said to alleviate one of his distress, an insubstantial hope. However, grimy with the cold, no one seeks to untangle himself from the web of lies, wishing simply to drown in an illusion. They desire to obtain wealth, to escape from the detrimental circumstances.

Zakhar and Vladimir, these two men were no different.

They had mined for over sixteen years, they had plunged into the depths of the earth with their piercing shovels for a lengthy period of no success. Occasionally, diminutive nuggets of valuable metal would be uncovered, then appraised for monetary purposes, but the trifling weight was a mortification. The solemn masks they wore on their faces sagged with lassitude, at the oppressive climate and the seemingly ineradicable series of disappointment. There was even a slight drag in their gaits whenever they walked to the site of mining, ready to look straight into the vast chasm of nothingness. Others shared their fate and long retired from the pointless exertion, having precipitated into despondency. Slowly, the throng of exhilarated people dwindled beside them, as they throw down their shovels in frustration and decide begrudgingly that their current lifestyles could not be changed.

Still, Zakhar and Vladimir had not given up, clinging ludicrously onto that tiny shred of hope. As a result of years of strenuous and painstaking enterprise, they had dug an immense cavity, to which they wake up to each morning to penetrate further, only withdrawing when the infinitesimal strips of sunlight had cowardly retreated behind the compact clouds. The dreary, fixed program of their lives, they had grown accustomed to; the dull and systematic thrusts of their shovels reflected the unimaginative pattern of their lifestyles. At times, they would pause for a break, wipe the sweat that had accumulated at the brows, and glance up at the blurry and obscure silhouette of the sun against the canvas of clouds; the boundless distance would remind them how contemptible the sun was for teasing them by being visual, but never allowing for the heat to reach their skins.

Then arrived the momentous day. It started in a very conventional fashion; at the break of dawn, they headed to the hollow pit they had forged, that must be at least seven meters deep. With the first strikings of the shovels against the dirt, their tedious tasks commenced. The routine had become so soporific, that Zakhar had to hum under his breath to keep himself alert.

Their friend, Mikhail, peeked down at the hole where they were at, something that he had committed himself to performing consistently at the end of each day. Zakhar and Vladimir did not censure this, though, for in the barren and impoverished land, one would naturally seek company; simply perceiving another's presence was mollifying in the miserable conditions.

Mikhail had surveyed their work, and tiredly, he asked, just like any other day, "Any luck?"

"Maybe tomorrow," came Zakhar and Vladimir's automatic response; this exchange of words was practiced for years.

But on this particular day, Mikhail followed through differently:

"I think I'm gonna give up," he sniffed, his nose ruddy from the chill. He held up his own shovel, then negligently flung it to the ground as though castigating its cheap quality. "The blade's worn."

"Then, getta new one," Zakhar had replied, a bit sharply. "No need ta throw in the shovel now."

"Naw, I think I'm really gonna give this up," he returned. "The blade is like what I am. I'm worn ta the bone, Zakhar. Ya look real good 'round ya now. No one else is left, ya can hear the whistling of the wind, even."

"Where da ya think ya can go, if ya givin' up on mining?" Zakhar retaliated; the edge in his tone is evident now. He swallowed down the anger churning within him, but Mikhail was tossing oil in the flames and trampling on delicate ground. He knew that Mikhail was fatigued—what was left of the miners were exhausted to the sheer limits—and considering how awful and beaten he looked, Zakhar must appear no better in comparison. But in spite of the intrinsic aches in his muscles, he had persevered, and it was much too disconcerting for him to accept that yet another one of his long-term friends was quitting like some culpable pessimist; that mere thought nauseated him.

Mikhail exhaled for an extended duration, and a raise then a contraction rippled along his shoulders. "I dunno. I'm probably gonna work in sum coal factory like the rest of 'em."

Zakhar seethed, "Sounds stupid, yer gonna be bound ta someone's schedule."

"Ya won't have no damn freewill like us miners," Vladimir added, and the exasperation in his voice was readily distinguishable.

"Freewill?" Mikhail challenged, with a cynical cock of his eyebrow; apparently, he was displeased due to the poor reception his proclamation garnered. "All of ya are tied down ta this one thing 'ere." He emphatically pounded the soil. "Ya started 'ere', ya gonna grow old 'ere, and ya gonna die 'ere. No exception."

Zakhar had hissed at his insinuation, and Mikhail immediately looked a bit sorry—he was a mellow character, and affronting insolence was not something he would be proud of. Nevertheless, Mikhail never picked up his shovel, and when he left, he did not return.

"Yet another quitter. Forget 'im," Vladimir grumbled disdainfully, and jabbed his tool into the ground. His robust frame undulated slightly at the impact, at his endeavor, as it always did. His shovel scooped up an ample amount of dirt, to which he hurled methodically to the side. Then, he repeated his actions, over and over again.

Zakhar ruminated while observing his partner. Deep within himself, Zakhar was cognizant of the fact that he feared others relinquishing because it only served to be an addendum to the idea that what they were doing, in essence, was worthless—and he would not be able to stand that; mining was the single thing that he and his partner were capable of. To be told that what they had dedicated their lives to for multitudinous years was entirely for nothing was too baffling to acknowledge.

"Zakhar, snap outta it," Vladimir said, temporarily suspending his activity, and frowned. "We gotta keep goin'. We can't give up. We're almost there."

Zakhar had nodded, but inwardly, doubts had snarled his mind and heart in a convoluted labyrinth. _Almost where?_ What was their objective, again? Sixteen years back, it was clear, coherent, and harmonious. They were pertinacious and resolute. But after all these unvarying months, the intransigent and uncompromising winters, the growing loneliness at the desertion of others, the direction they were heading in was questionable. Whatever they acquired, be it a few nuggets, they had to sell in order to battle starvation, and they were once again at the starting points of their venture. It was a perpetual and infuriating cycle.

But, that very cycle shattered, in such an unexpected and unforeseen manner, that it was surreal; the mundane rhythm of their lifestyles forever altered by a single sound:

_Clang!_

Vladimir's shovel had hit something hard.

It snagged both of their attentions, and Zakhar, without a moment's hesitation, hastily joined Vladimir's side. A word was not spoken between them, for they were unanimously aware of what they must do. At an impetuous pace, and taciturn, they worked to uncover whatever had caused that queer sound; their keen and versed ears had correlated it to the collision of metal against metal. As they labored, it gradually became palpable that the object was quite big. Zakhar had to suppress his overwhelming excitement to the bare minimum. How long had it been since he had a taste of this whimsically strange feeling, this revitalization; he could finally hearken the pumping of his stirred heart in his eardrums, that prior to this day, had been so torpid and lethargic, he nearly suspected that he was a moving deceased.

Night fell over them, but still, they toiled sedulously. Then, they discovered it: the case, that was relatively two meters long. The effect was exorbitant; the both of them were virtually stunned, and Zakhar's breath was intercepted in his pulsating chest. With trembling fingers, they lifted it gingerly from its abidance.

Zakhar almost dropped the case, yelping, "_Какого черта_! What was that?"

"Careful there!" Vladimir chided, and he cautiously lowered the case to the ground by their feet. "What was what?"

Zakhar felt the blood draining from his face, as he studiously examined his fingers; flexing and stretching them experimentally. "Th... d-don't tell me ya didn't feel _that_!"

"Feel what?" his partner inquired impatiently.

"It _vibrated_! I swear ta Lord, there is something _alive_ in that thing!"

Vladimir ogled at him questionably, as though he was going insane. Despite how mentally deranged and distraught he must seem like, Zakhar was positive that when he made contact with that thing, an oscillating sensation was elicited from that perturbing object. He did not quite comprehend the phenomena, since the extraordinary resonance was brief and fleeting, but he _felt_ it nonetheless. It was much more profound than a tingle to the skin, but rather, it was a probe to his very soul, and it left him quivering with repulse.

From then on, he kept a wary distance.

"Eh, what's this?" Vladimir murmured, with eyebrows furrowed, and he traced his fingers thoughtfully along a string of foreign words inscribed to the side of the case. The both of them curiously scrutinized the unfamiliar writing, composed of unrecognizable characters.

"I dunno." Zakhar straightened. "But, shall we get this appraised?"

* * *

The appraiser had a small pawn shop situated conveniently near the mining site. Business was scarce, but when they entered, the appraiser was preoccupied with a customer; a rare sight. However, when the case was brought into view, the appraiser granted the newly arrived pair his full attention. His mouth was agape, and his glasses sunk to the crook of his nose, incontrovertibly indicating his astonishment.

Zakhar and Vladimir ostentatiously set down the heavy case, with the former glad to not having to shoulder the agitating thing any longer—it was already a sufficient burden when they had to pull and push it from the hole to ground level.

"We needta know how much this is worth," Vladimir announced, pride emanating from his broad stature. The grin on his face, lightening up his intimidating features, enlarged when the appraiser could not forbear from inhaling sharply.

The appraiser hurriedly made his way around the counter, and he gleefully approached the case, inspecting its authentic beauty. Slowly, with dainty fingers splayed against the mahogany wood, he deliberately placed his hands atop it, solicitously mindful of refraining from marring it. The tip of his nose was just centimeters from touching the case. "Oh, my," he gasped, "where in the world did you manage to get your hands on such a beautiful thing?"

"That's none of ya concern," Zakhar cut in, folding his shoulders in front of the tiny man. "You just concentrate on accessing it, ya hear, that's all yer gonna worry 'bout."

"Yes, yes," the appraiser assured quickly. He tapped his chin meditatively, then snapped his fingers. "Ten gold rubles."

Zakhar's and Vladimir's eyes widened and blazed with avarice. They exchanged glances and came to a complete agreement. "Well," Zakhar began, "I s'pose—"

"Ten rubles? Why, this is worth much more than that."

All gazes shifted to the appraiser's previous customer, that was forgotten. At a closer inspection, Zakhar could discern that he was a tall English man, dressed in a top hat and a sophisticated coat. He was freshly shaved, by the looks of it, and his hair was short and brown. The man spoke again in his British accent, and he greeted them with a friendly smile, "Hello there, men. The name's Liam Anderson, pleased to be of your acquaintance."

He offered his hand amicably. Zakhar, while narrowing his eyes suspiciously, shook it, and Vladimir mimicked him. "Zakhar," he introduced himself succinctly, "and my friend's Vladimir."

"Wonderful. Now then," Liam said, returning his gloved hand to his pocket, his eyes scanning the case on display, "I will graciously pay you five-hundred pounds for this."

They gawked. "How much is that?"

Liam chuckled heartily. "One British Pound Sterling is equivalent to one point forty-nine Swiss Franc—the currency for France. One gold ruble, I believe, is equivalent to four Francs. Meaning, if you were to sell this in Russia, that would be forty Francs in France, which is roughly twenty-seven pounds in Great Britain. Now, if you were take my price, which is five-hundred pounds, it would be equivalent to roughly seven-hundred and forty-six Francs, which is one-hundred eighty-six point five gold rubles. _That_ is how much I'm willing to pay you."

Zakhar and Vladimir were both thwarted and confounded by the sudden and intricate computation imposed upon them. They were never knowledgeable of these conversions, and frankly, those were too complex and troublesome to pick apart one by one. For him to explain it so breezily, Zakhar interpreted it as a demeaning elaboration, as though he was boasting of his capacity for arithmetic and mocking theirs.

"Well then..." Zakhar muttered scornfully, "just pay us then."

Liam chuckled again that aggravating laugh of his; it had a nasal tinge to it that was quite upsetting. He theatrically lifted the pocket folds of his to show the emptiness within them. "I don't carry around that large of a sum with me."

A short silence ensued, until Vladimir turned to the appraiser who was waiting on the brink of anticipation, "So 'bout the ten gold rubles...—"

"However," Liam interrupted with a wry smile, "if you are willing to bring it to my business in London, I can assure you I will reward you handsomely, much more than I have initially proposed."

Zakhar was stupefied—never had he nor Vladimir left their home in Russia, the mining site they woke up to each and every morning for countless of years. The idea of traveling to such a faraway and unfamiliar place was discombobulating. Zakhar and Vladimir could barely make out much of the English language, no less; to be going there unequipped with fundamental knowledge would be a bear trap, the perfect opportunity for a couple of scandals and thieves to take advantage of them. Conveying such an important object through that vast of a distance would be a terribly onerous duty, even though the remuneration sounded exceptionally gratifying.

"Why do ya care 'bout this thing so much?" Vladimir challenged. "Ain't like people I know ready ta give that large sum away. If I was ya I'd keep it, not give it fer this."

"May I?" Liam gestured toward the case, and with their permission which they granted with mirthless bobs of their heads, he approached it, ushering the appraiser aside. He bent down, tucking his legs behind his knees, in a manner very much like a child that it would have been risible had it not been present in the tense atmosphere. His fingers delineated the inscrutable words impressed on the case's side.

"Can ya read it? D'ya know what it means?" Vladimir interrogated, the skepticism from before having been mitigated due to his flourishing curiosity. Zakhar must concede that he, too, was inquisitive.

"Ah," Liam murmured contemplatively, "no."

All interest quickly vanished, and Vladimir once again rotated to the appraiser—

"However," the English man added, as he casually dusted the squalid filth from the surface of the case, "I identify that these words belong to the Latin language. You asked me, I believe, why do I care for this item. Well, I am simply trying to return this to its home, which should be in London or elsewhere Western. I am a historian, you see."

Zakhar raised an eyebrow. "What makes ya think this thing belongs ta the Western side?"

"Because, the fact that Latin was engraved onto this case gives away a hint," Liam elucidated. "Previously, the dominant language of the West was Latin—and its script was significantly adapted into the English language, thus if I bring this to my office, I should be able to decipher it. Now—ah, would you look at this?" He lightly struck the case with his knuckles to draw attention.

On the surface of the case, which was obscure up until this moment when the foul matter was extirpated, was a glimmering cross and pulchritudinous art work. It deftly depicting a holy woman in a celestial realm, with small children environing the indicated individual. It was a consummate masterpiece to behold.

"_La Purísima Inmaculada Concepción_, by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo in 1678," Liam associated it with a renowned painting, his voice characterized by an audible and excessive emission of breath, as though he was astounded himself. Zakhar felt a nugatory and petty victory that even an educated man like Liam was humble enough that he appreciated the same things as a meager miner would; it was adequate to show that they were still equal, in spite of it all, and that was plentiful for Zakhar to be confident again.

"It sure is sumthin'," he noted, fascinated.

"Indeed! And, it is yet another huge hint that this belongs to the West," Liam said. "This is a representation of a dogma from the Roman Catholic Church: the Immaculate Conception of Mary, which states that the Blessed Virgin was kept free of original sin, and filled with sanctifying grace. This doctrine is formal only in the Roman Catholic Church, and was rejected by the Eastern Orthodox Church." He cupped his chin, engrossed in musing, and excogitated the situation. "Now, I do wonder what is the significance of this case, considering its religious features."

The appraiser cleared his throat, and the rest of them remembered that he was still there. He meaningfully pointed to the chains that enveloped the case formidably—it appeared as though Liam's calm, meticulous observations had not only mesmerized Zakhar and Vladimir to a reflective and studious silence, but they also intrigued the appraiser. "I'm surprised we are just studying it by its exterior. I'd say to judge its true values, you'd have to see its contents."

"Well said," Liam agreed, "we shall have to remove these chains, first and foremost."

"Leave it ta me," Vladimir volunteered, and flexed his arm muscles then cracked his knuckles in a grandiose fashion.

"Are you certain...?" the English man murmured dubiously, and Zakhar scoffed.

"Just watch and learn. Ol' Vladimir 'ere is the strongest man I've ever known."

Vladimir firmly grabbed hold of the chains in his broad palms. With a lopsided, presumptuous smirk, his unsightly scar contracting at the reconfiguration of his facial expression, he tugged with all of his might. In times like these, Zakhar would abhor being his opponent, for Vladimir was a man preeminent in bodily power.

The chains stretched to his direction, at the puissant pull. But, they did not come loose; instead, they obstinately adhered to the case, interlacing and crossing and passing alternatively over and under one another, a twisted network.

"What... the..." Vladimir grunted, wholly befuddled, and continued to yank at the chains again and again, but they refused to untangle. His attempts evolved into desperation, and the intervals between him tugging then pausing for a breath became increasingly slim. Beads of sweat manifested at his forehead, and indecent curses were uttered, as vexation bolstered its grip.

"Sir Vladimir, that's enough," Liam asserted.

"No, Vlad can do this, he's the strongest man alive, ya hear me?" Zakhar hissed angrily. "You don't underestimate 'im."

"I'm far from underestimating him, Sir Zakhar," Liam reassured in a tranquil manner which irritated Zakhar for some reason. "I'm sure he is a competent man. I am merely stating what is apparent: these chains cannot be removed easily. They must be extracted by a different process, aside from human strength. We will have to research further at my office, and I will recompense you when you manage to get there." He fondly patted the case. "This is a very interesting item, indeed, and I do not want to pass up this opportunity. History reverberates from it."

The odd man borrowed a piece of parchment from the appraiser, scribbled information upon it, then slipped it in Zakhar's front pocket. With a conciliatory smile that placated Zakhar's hostility, Liam tipped his hat in respect, as he moved toward the exit. "That location I have given you is where my office is in London. I hope you will consider delivering it to me, despite the distance. You won't be disappointed with my requital for your services. Till I meet you both again, I bid you a farewell."

* * *

**Present Time**

Zakhar jerks back to reality, at the loud, wet clap induced from Vladimir's large palm when it pounded against the surface of the unwelcoming double doors. A mysterious aura encompasses this particular plot of land. The Western style of this building is very much prominent, especially due to its complex structural form, in spite of the fact that it should be a simple abode.

"Well then, this 'as better be worth it," Zakhar mutters under his breath. He and Vladimir have crossed immeasurable distances, tolerated the toughest terrains, and struggled to evade the probability of robbery—in fact, they were forced to cover the case with a paltry blanket they picked up until that was promptly abandoned right before they reached London. In many occasions, they have gotten lost, and suffered from hunger, thirst, illness, and affliction. They were fortunate enough that they have encountered some hospitable people along the way that provided them the necessities to live and temporary shelters to dwell within. All that bastard Liam left them with is a single strip of paper, and yet he had expected them to triumph. Indeed they have, at long last, arrived, but Zakhar has a illimitable mental repository of bitter and acrimonious remarks, complaints, and accusations, and he was prepared to unleash to Liam his wrath.

Then, the doors open, permitting warmth to transmit to them, and alluring light to enliven the dark expressions on their faces.

And, out comes Liam Anderson, the man that has given them this arduous mission. He peers at the two of them through his glossy spectacles, then gradually, a fervid grin develops in his composed countenance.

"Welcome, gentlemen, to my home and office. You both looked like you've been through a long journey." Liam steps aside and pushes the door further ajar. "Come inside, and take a rest."

* * *

**A/N: I am not quite certain about the currency conversions between the British Pound Sterling and the Swiss Franc during the late 19th century, and used the contemporary way of transmuting, instead; therefore, one pound equals 1.49 franc. On 17 December 1885, the Russian gold ruble was made equivalent to that of four Francs; the rate was later revised in 1897.**


	3. Bare Hands, Fleeting Treasure

**The Sin of Innocence - Chapter 3: _Bare Hands, Fleeting Treasure_**

A/N: In response to Ze Quixotical's review (I apologize, I normally don't single out one person, but the general idea behind your review, I feel the need to address): I had a premonition that if I focused on background alone, like in the previous chapter, and omit action-packed scenes, I would get some sort of... well, not complaint per se, but rather, objection. However, my problem with this is that you are expressing discontent about the previous chapter, while looking for aspects that, frankly, do not exist. I have deliberately stated at the beginning that the chapter primarily concentrates on establishing background, so no, I will not be jumping directly to suspense and action or of the like. As for my writing style, what can I say, I look up to authors such as William Golding. I could have very easily written things in a manner such as this: "It rained" instead of describing the atmosphere; however, that would take away a substantial part of me as a writer, for my style is to describe, and not piece together mundane and trite sentences. What effort is there to that? I like to have my own unique flair to writing things, that is my style. Although it would be reasonable if you did not like the chapter because you did not understand something or needed clarification for a matter—this would fit the definition of constructive criticism is—what I see is you principally "complain" because your attention span cannot put up with it—in contrast to constructive criticism, you are arguing on the basis of your personal ideals. Honestly, that irks me; there is a distinctive line between constructive criticism and genuine efforts to improve the writer, and subjective views and predilections pertaining solely to a particular person that try to compel the writer to write in a way that satisfies them. In other words, you are a type of reader who expects a lot more action, but I am a writer that cannot please everyone. If your preference is to read something packed with action at every chapter, well, so be it, but that's not what my stories consist of. I find it ridiculous if I'd have to put tags such as this in my author's note: Warning: This chapter does not contain a lot of action, so you might get bored more easily. I'm not going to concern myself with that.

I know when's the right time to add more description, and when it is not appropriate to. With establishing background, it warrants plentiful description; but, rest assured, when I wish to induce suspense, I will cut back on "unnecessary" words. I've done this many times before, so I at least have experience. If it has absorbed too much time for you to read and review, then you don't have to, let's put it as simple as that. You're not being put in chains, nor are you obligated to peruse. There's no shame in abandoning a story you don't have interest in. As I have stated, everyone's preferences are different.

The only reason why I have addressed this is because I know that if I had one objection, there should at least be a few or several silent readers who feel the same. So anyone that shares the same opinion, this is my reply to you. It's my own writing style, and from what I know, I've always written in this fashion. If you do not like it, don't force yourself to read. Sorry, Ze, I understand your intentions, but I'm displeased by the fundamental notion behind your objection; I'm not attempting to instigate an argument, but I must defend my own position as a writer.

* * *

**On a happier note, I'm really glad to see old readers from _Obsession_ returning. It's a gratifying sight. Thank you for your constant support and help; without your wise judgments and moving sentiments, I would not have gotten very far.**

**This is the final chapter of Zak and Vlad being the central characters. After this last stepping stone, the plot would be effectively developed enough to progress. Sorry for the delayed update, blame temporary writer's block and horrendous school work.**

**Disclaimer: I do not Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

It is a cozy little house, hemmed in by wooden walls. Before them is the parlor, composed of a snug-looking sofa that the newly arrived pair pine to ease their bodily discomfort on. A modest coffee table is situated beside it, as well as a lit fireplace. Various portraits of meritorious portrayals of famous cities and accounts of geological regions—complicated maps and others of that assortment—amass along the walls, pinned down roughly by shoddy, rusty nails. An indiscriminate combination of junk strews the floor: old, crumpled newspapers, substandard pots and pans that are chipped beyond repair, and dusty books. Indeed, books—an incredible amount of books are scattered about, each thick and bordered with yellow, rotting pages.

It appears as though Liam Anderson has also taken the liberty to assign the parlor with another purpose besides accommodating visitors: it is to serve as his office as well. For, there is a large desk placed to the right of the sofa, and it is littered with a ridiculous aggregation of papers and journals. There is a scratched can that holds numerous writing utensils, and a few porcelain inkwells, with one filled with viscous substance and the others empty in exception to splatters and blemishes. Candles, furnished with flickering balls of flame as their apexes, are put atop the desk and coffee table, decorating the otherwise deeply shaded interior.

"My, my, come in quickly," Liam ushers them inside, and hastily shuts the door behind them. He claps his palms over his arms, a feeble effort to preserve heat, and shivers. "The weather is absolutely horrid today, I simply cannot stand it."

Zakhar scowls temperamentally, his back still arched with having to partially carry the weight of the case. "And how d'ya think we feel? Ya didn't go marchin' 'round in the accursed rain. Now, where da hell do we set down this heavy thing?"

"Oh, yes! There _should_ be a convenient spot to place the case..." The English man glances around the room, and his ears flush slightly pink with mortification when the pair antagonistically grimace at the meaningless rubbish embracing the floor. "Ah, please pardon me for my disorganization. I did not expect that you two would arrive tonight. Mind you, it was unpredictable." He impetuously crosses the room to his desk, and he propels all the materials upon it aside with a swift shove; narrowly missing the candles that would have caused quite a predicament had the ravenous fire come into contact with ground. Papers disperse from their tidy piles, journals plop unceremoniously to the floor, quills disseminate; their feathery tips fluttering, and inkwells are reduced to fragments at the violent force.

Liam gives them a warm, broad smile, patting the now uncluttered surface of the desk indicatively. He offhandedly dismisses their confounded looks with a polite shake of his head. "No worries about the mess. It just means more to clean later."

Zakhar would have argued, but the insufferable burden against his back and arms abolishes all thoughts of dissension to oblivion. With a grunt, he and Vladimir bring the case over to where Liam is and set it on the designated place.

Liberated from the aggravating thing, Zakhar extends his arms above his head in a pacifying stretch. In the meantime, Liam has rummaged through his drawers, pausing briefly to push an errant lock of ashy brown hair from his line of vision, and fetched a magnifying glass. Then, for the next several quiet moments, he is intent to scrutinizing the case from all angles.

A light smile traces along his lips, as he gently touches the near-immaculate gilded surface. "Defaced with but only a few scratches here and there. You've kept this in tip-top condition, I am very pleased and grateful."

Vladimir produces a loud snort. "Of course." He cannot begin to express the great exertion they have invested into retaining the case's quality and pulchritude. Irksome months of rigorous upkeep, sleepless vigils, and attentive protection have most certainly taken a devastating toll on their health.

Once again, a deep silence prevails as Liam conducts a conscientious study of the case. He gingerly dusts it, while hovering the magnifying glass centimeters above it to maintain a sharply defined view. Low, incoherent mutterings rumble from the threshold of his throat, as his keen eyes circumspectly rover over the object of interest.

During the interval where Liam undertakes a careful and precise investigation, Zakhar fully acknowledges that Liam has, indeed, aged since the past year when they have first encountered one another. Unsettling streaks of grey tarnish the threads of dark tertiary color atop his scalp. His corrugated face, overwhelmed with small furrows and ridges beneath the eyes and along the forehead, is relatively agitating, especially when one has expected a vigorous, robust, and young man to greet them after a debilitating journey—truly, it is quite the disappointment.

Soon, he has grown wearied with observing Liam devote the entirety of his attention to the case—not a single regard to his exhausted visitors, which would lead one to the unpleasant thought that the Englishman's sense of propriety has depreciated over the years of languishing in this shabby home. Zakhar is about to motion to Vladimir to make himself comfortable, only to see the man of large stature sprawled across the sofa in an ungraceful fashion.

Suppressing a chuckle, Zakhar casts an amused look at Vladimir, muttering a, "Yer leavin' no room fer me," before hurling an exasperated scowl at Liam and settling at the window seat. The soft cushions work quickly to mitigate the tension along his lower spine, and he heaves a long, deep sigh and rests his head against the cold glass that is varnished with disseminating raindrops.

He hears, indistinctly, Liam's remote and reserved whisper, as though he is speaking out of negligence, "Give me a few minutes, will you? I just need to complete some preliminary measures, at noting down its condition and current state and whatnot, and I'll be right with you both. I will escort you to your guest room shortly."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vladimir engage in a protracted yawn while idly scratching his imposing scar. "We just wanna get paid. Where's our sum, eh?"

"Oh, why, yes! I will pay you, of course; your perseverance and hard work definitely merit a handsome compensation. Pardon me, my money is safely kept away in that bank yonder down the street. I will retrieve it at the break of dawn tomorrow, I assure you. But for now, let's not make light of this weather; I cannot bear to step even a toe outside."

"Ain't nothing compared ta Russia," Zakhar retorts disdainfully, and having decided to no longer be a participant in the trifling conversation, he shifts his gaze once again to the window. Outside, it is a sight to fear. Lightning tears viciously across the sky, without mercy, and the shrieking thunder that supersedes it occupies sovereignty over the vault of clouds.

Obfuscating the glass with his breath that glosses the surface with vapor, his eyes gradually droop with fatigue. As his lashes close in, he takes notice to the ground—an extemporaneous act that was performed subconsciously. He perceives the sidewalk winding to the front door where they have entered, and the small, banal garden repleted with petty flowers that are recoiling and bowing their heads at the intensity of the storm.

He also notices, though, how trampled they are, in such a manner anomalous if it was actuated by the rain alone. Once he registers that fact, his mind instantly sharpens its cognitive senses; and he is able to make out the outline of a man-made footprint, impressed on the submerged soil.

The posterior end of the foot, the heel, is deliberately in his direction, as though a person has been standing right in front of the house. He would have conjectured that it was Liam, at some other time tending to his plants. However, it is deep and conspicuous enough that it could not have been created for long, or the storm would have extirpated it from existence by drowning it in a flood of rain. It is extending quite a bit far down to the ground, as if someone has accumulated their weight to the soles of their feet by bending low.

He knows a fresh track when he sees one; he and Vladimir have hunted in the woods of Russia for meat whenever nourishment is deficient. Whether it is a mere rabbit, or a human being, the treading of a creature can easily be discerned and surmised when it has transpired, by taking into account the influential environment.

This must have happened a few minutes ago.

Was a person here, standing outside and peering in?

Apprehension starts to dance and form shadows, to promulgate its presence, at the back of his mind, but he refuses to accept any feeling of dread and anticipation. Instead, his vision searches beyond the footprint, and indeed, more footprints are visible. Once the expanse of the garden ceases at the cobblestone, however, the tracks are cut off. But Zakhar persists, squinting now, and his intent stare is concentrated at the buildings across the street.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary; though the infrastructure is dilapidated from age and wear, it is quite unexceptional. There lacks a slightest of movement or flitting about from the opaque curtains and the compactly locked, inaccessible doors.

But, the gaping hole of the alleyway swiftly captures his curiosity. Scrutinizing the two proportional walls that run along in a stretch, and the ungenerous space they establish in between, he beholds a very subtle and slim figure—so tenuous and delicate is the view he manages to achieve, that he fears if he blinks he would lose sight of it. Thus, he gawks quite obtrusively, the tip of his nose pressing against the window, at the imperceptible shape bearing against the wall.

"Zakhar!"

Zakhar jerks suddenly, out of alarm at the curt and brusque call. Realizing he has blinked when he jumped, he hastily turns back to the window. He angles his neck desperately, but he can no longer see it. The figure earlier, it has disappeared.

A heated sensation erupts in his chest—it is extreme anger if one is to label it intrinsically. Aroused with ire, Zakhar revolves around belligerently and confronts Vladimir with a hostile glare.

"_What_?" he demands impatiently.

Vladimir, apparently, does not meet inimical responses with tolerance, and he grabs Zakhar's collar. Zakhar finds himself being lifted from the window seat, the soles of his feet having risen a few centimeters from contact with the ground.

"I've been callin' ya fer the umpteenth time, but ya ain't been givin' me no piece of mind!" Vladimir jabs a thumb at Liam. "He's done with droolin' over the thing."

Zakhar tilts his head to the side, with strenuous effort to look past Vladimir's gargantuan dimensions, and sees Liam nodding at him.

"Now," Liam says, "if you can aid me with just one more thing, before you head to sleep..."

Soon, they maneuver through the tiny hallway, to a particular bedroom at the end. Despite the relatively short trip, Zakhar has been voicing complaints because they were required to, once again, lug along the case.

"I think it would be most convenient," Liam states, as he pushes open the door, "if this remains under your studious surveillance for another night. I'll take full custody of it tomorrow."

* * *

Zakhar twists about in his narrow bed, trying to attain a satisfactory position. At the oscillation, the wooden slats supporting the straw mattress produce vexatious creaks. This evidently bothers Vladimir as well, who grunts at a stentorian level that its lasting effects ring in Zakhar's eardrums.

The general quietness of the house is greatly soporific, which Vladimir does not despise as sleep is his principal concern at the moment. Indulging in a serene state of calmness, he is slowly drifting off to slumber. However, the rustling and stirring from the bed in the other side of the room would not allow him to be at rest.

Furtively, he glances from his sagging eyelids, to see Zakhar abruptly sitting up. His body frame basks in eerie moonlight; the moon has finally decided to reveal itself, after being concealed by the tempestuous clouds for an interlude. The unduly paleness of his skin, which is due to years of subjugation to the prevalent snow, is prominent under the glower of the moon. He would have urged him to cease the bothersome noises, but he then recognizes the knitted brow weighing heavily against Zakhar's forehead. It is clear that Zakhar is troubled about a certain matter, the scowl he is wearing indicative of a somber contemplation.

"Ya asleep yet, Vlad?" the distressed fellow murmurs, his tone solemn and mirthless—notwithstanding, it is not as if Zakhar is much of an effervescent character to begin with.

Although surprised by the unexpected address to him, Vladimir opts to not be overly startled, and replies with a lethargic grumble. He watches as his partner offhandedly scratches his chin, as he bores a hole through the wall with his acute stare.

Fleetingly, at a rate so expeditious that Vladimir nearly misses it, Zakhar's gaze flickers over to the case lying in the far corner of the room. The brilliant gold encrusting the object glistens flamboyantly, and it seems to shine all the more now that it receives attention from the both of them.

"I've been meanin' ta talk 'bout that _thing_," Zakhar mutters, and Vladimir slightly frowns. Of course, Vladimir refers to it as a thing as well, because it is essentially a material item. But, the way that Zakhar speaks when he regards the thing is disconcerting; he enunciates the "thing," as if it is the most vile, wretched, and despicable form of existence ever to be generated on Earth.

"What ta 'bout it?"

Zakhar furls his fingers into fists, the contraction of his brow deepening. "I swear ta Lord, there is somethin' _off_ with that thing—"

"Oh, not this again!" Vladimir groans, and he turns his back to his crazed companion indignantly to express his reluctance to partake in the ludicrous conversation any longer. "Ya always ramblin' on 'bout somethin' queer goin' on inside that thing. Yet, ain't nothin' ever popped up, an' ya know it. We've been with it fer over a year, an' nothin' ever happens. Ya should quit yer make-believe fears."

"But, it is _true_," the other Russian man argues, incited with enough vehemence that the bed makes a harsh squeaking sound. "Don't tell me ya haven't noticed! The closer we got ta England, the more _frequent_ these . . . these _vibrations_ got! I'm serious!" His voice lowers to a frantic hiss. "I felt it with my own fingertips, an' I can't get rid of that thought!"

Impulsively, Vladimir sits up too, and he throws Zakhar an uncompromising look. "Look, ya overreactin' 'bout childish stuff, ya listenin' well? I don't get how ya can be so hateful ta this thing. It's gonna get us rich. Ain't that what we always wanted? An', it's gonna get us it. It's been doin' nothin' but good ta us. Just good ta us. It doesn't matter what's in that thing, it's not our problem—hell, it could be a mummified elephant fer all I care, we just needa get the money an' we're good."

"Don't you get it, though?" Zakhar presses on insistently and imperatively, his eyes wide. "We already got too deeply involved with this thing, that's what I've been tryna say. I swear, it was like . . . i-it was like it got"—he gulps a large draft of air—"it got _excited_, as we approach London. Like it was expectin' somethin' here, as if it _wanted_ ta be here."

Inadvertently, the frigid tendrils of apprehension coil around his spine in a chill. Vladimir has not intended to be imbued with the sense of dread—Zakhar must be prevaricating the whole story, right? He is simply being absurd and illogical; the new setting must have a detrimental effect on him.

"Yer being ridiculous," Vladimir spits in an incisive manner. He truly does not want to listen to this senselessness any longer; it would only inspire unnecessary paranoia or of the like.

Zakhar is persistent, and he passionately points a finger at the case, "I'm tellin' ya, open yer eyes an' heed my words! That thing is _alive_—"

"Yer a madman!" Vladimir explodes in a roar.

The vociferous shout effectively silences all else. Inflamed, the two glare at one another, each of them not wishing to submit to the other by relenting their fierce gaze.

The door opens, and the Englishman tentatively peeks in his head, that is decorated with a disheveled slate of hair. "Um, gentlemen, is everything all right in here? I've overheard a huge ruckus. Is the bedroom not to your taste, or is something else the matter? Anything I can provide assistance with?"

"Don't go nosin' 'round where you shouldn't be," Zakhar snaps. "We're fine."

"Ah, I see... Well, then, I bid you gentlemen a good night."

The door shuts, and receding footsteps reverberate in the empty hallway. Once Vladimir affirms that Liam has withdrawn from hearing proximity, he speaks again, this time in a quieter voice, "Ya best be headin' ta sleep now. Drive all that nonsense outta yer head, or it's gonna follow ya ta ya dreams."

Without waiting for an argument, the big man falls back against his pillow and retreats to the gentle clutches of sleep.

* * *

"Good morning to you both," Liam cheerily greets the groggy pair, who settle at the table he has indicated with a casual sweep of his hand. "How was your sleep? I trust it has went well?" Once he places the plates of breakfast on the surface, the two swiftly wolf down the contents, completely dismissing the Englishman's question.

"Whutsh this?" Zakhar inquires through a compact mouthful of food, poking at a strip of crisp meat with his fork.

"Why, it's bacon," Liam identifies.

Although slightly bemused, the Russian man simply shrugs and devours another portion of his morning sustenance. "It's pretty good."

Liam politely chuckles. "Well, I am pleased you find the breakfast to your suiting." From the coat rack by the door, he takes the top hat and puts it on his head, and grabs a hold of a cane lying forlornly against the wall. "Now then, once you are finished, who would like to accompany me to the bank?"

* * *

"It is just you and I, Sir Vladimir?"

Vladimir crosses his muscular arms and laconically grunts, indicating an affirmation. Liam nods, and the both of them proceed out of the house.

Immediately, the city imposes a mighty and puissant effect on the big Russian man. Suddenly his size, though notoriously great, seems insignificant compared to the vast expanse of the large town. The storm has considerably cleared up—in fact, it almost appears as though it has never existed.

The city at the moment is a stupendous contrast to yesterday's, when it was obscured by the night and shrouded by the ferocious weather. Now, it is statuesque, in the least. Very much like the rumors he has heard while dwelling in Russia, London is an incredibly busy town. A voluminous complex of buildings tall and short, wide and thin margin the area, only parted when the broad and tortuous cobblestone paths fit in between them. There is a remarkable diversity of them—stores, pawn shops, post offices, bakeries, repositories, libraries, education centers, and shelters; the mixes of scents are very much bewildering yet attractive all the same.

What is more, there exists so many people. People, clustered in groups, in pairs, or simply advancing singularly, are bustling about, crowding the streets and leaving not much interstices for anything other than air. Some enjoy the liberty of riding in carriages, but most of them walk on foot.

However, the most enthralling factor to him is the omniscient sun that poises above them. The hot ball of energy is astoundingly radiant, and it singes his skin with a heat so satisfying that he merely stands there to indulge in the warmness. A tingling sensation erupts within him, at the pervading rays of sunlight. Smoothly, he slides out of his thick winter coat and drapes it casually over his shoulder.

The Englishman, who has been urging him to come along, only to have his endeavors fall to deaf ears, raises an eyebrow questionably at his queer actions. "Isn't it still a bit chilly though, Sir Vladimir?"

An extremely rare sight, it is, Liam must admit, for a small, gratified smile aligns on the big man's lips. "No... not at all."

"Ah, I see." Notwithstanding, it is relatively cold for Liam, but he dismisses it and advances on, his cane tapping the paved sidewalk in front of him while acting as a guide. Inadvertently, his walking stick collides softly with the heel of a woman, and she hastily moves to the side; he smiles a bit himself. "I'm sure you're wondering why I use a cane when I'm far from being blind. Well, truthfully, besides the style—yes, I suppose, we Englishmen find this to be a sophisticated practice—it is quite useful in prodding people out of the way in these teeming streets. It will be advantageous to you as well, I hope, if you plan on staying here for a while. We can even stop by a shop that sells these wonderful canes, if you so wish, it's nearby. What do you say?"

He turns his head to the side, and is startled when he finds himself staring at an unfamiliar man. The obtrusive gawk actuates the man to return the confounded look. "...Were you speaking to me this whole time?"

"Oh, my apologies, not you. I was conversing with my companion..." Liam excuses himself, his ears dusted with pink at the slight embarrassment, and anxiously, he glances around for Vladimir. He prays that he has not lost track of him—oh, the horrendous trouble and chastising he may receive from Zakhar if he is to disclose the unfortunate news.

But as soon as he is about to envisage the deplorable revelation and the prospective consequences that will follow in succession, he spots the massive man next to a multitude of other individuals as they collect around the decorative flyers along the walls of the stores.

"Sir Vladimir, please, do not go off on your own! You've nearly given me a heart attack!" The Englishman hobbles clumsily over to him, while jostling others aside with his cane, to enlarge the infinitesimal apertures of space between them and squeeze through.

Vladimir disregards his concerns, predisposed with the flyers encompassing the walls. Pointing to one, he tersely states, "Explain. Can't read."

"I... see. You are a man of unparalleled courtesy," Liam responds to the curt command in a satirical manner, but the reception for his joke is poor; Vladimir did not so much as blinked. Moving on swiftly, he peers at the flyer, studying its content, "Oh, these are advertisements plastered on various surfaces, given to the public to view, so that the respective enterprises may attract business. Such as this one," he calls attention to a random flyer, "this one transmits information about the Hindustani Coffee House in Portman Square—though, it is unsafe, I warn you, a while back, Anglo-Indians were targeted there... This one is about the Chamberlain's Auctionhouse, an intriguing place, I suppose, where it focuses on—as you can guess, auctions. I haven't been there before. I've gotten enough of everything in my home—"

"What's this one?" Vladimir asks impatiently, never lifting his finger from a certain flyer. On the printed sheet, there are distinctive features including exhibitions of candies, sweets, and toys in the form of images.

"Oh, this is the Funtom Company. It is a confectionery and toy manufacturing establishment that is fairly successful. In fact, a shop is erected across the street from here." Without much enthusiasm, he perfunctorily waves at the building constructed on the opposite direction, before turning his attention back to the flyers. "It's chiefly for children, so don't expect much. Ah! How about this one? The Watson Library of Conventional Research is a splendid place that I am more than certain you will love. An extraordinary vessel of information. We should visit it; it's not far from the bank. Do you agree—"

Vladimir is not with him. In fact, the big man is across the street, in front of the window of the Funtom Company shop. Exasperated, Liam chews on his nether lip to suppress a developing groan that is increasingly cultivated the more this Russian man decides to skitter off without prior notice. He almost considers purchasing a leash, as he makes his way to his side.

Vladimir is overwhelmed with amazement. Through the glass, up for display, is an impressive assemblage of confections and trinkets. Diminutive ornaments and novelties perch on the shelves—he recognizes music boxes, puppets, and stuffed animals; the vague sense of familiarity acquired, he can trace it back to some fuzzy, short-lived memories of his childhood. Substantial chocolate bars are enveloped in elegant, golden wrappings. Colorful lollipops are laid out and arranged accordingly beside the other candies. They are undoubtedly appealing and tantalizing, and a sudden craving for them materializes. He watches the frolicsome children with envy as they speak with the vendor; after the handing over a couple of coins, they are in possession of the candies he desires.

Absentmindedly, he stuffs a hand in the pockets of the coat he carries, out of sheer yet hopeless optimism that there would exist any sort of monetary coins. And as expected, the result is disappointing. On the spur of the moment, he inspects himself in the reflection the window glass creates: slovenly hair, threadbare clothing, and worn shoes punctured by various holes. It only re-instills in him the reason why Zakhar and him had worked so hard in the first place; they are impecunious.

_Which is why that case is such a miracle._

A tiny item is pushed forcibly in the palm of his hand, and he subconsciously encloses his fist around it. When he gazes down, there is a glistening silver coin.

"Go on," Liam says, sighing. "But after you buy this, we are going directly to the bank. Honestly, I am tired of strolling around; I am getting old."

From Vladimir, Liam once again gets to witness the exceptional, rare sight. The littlest acts of kindness for these Russian men, Liam ruminates, are treasured deeply by them. But he supposes it is all worth it, seeing as the big man later saunters out confidently, while holding a brown bag and grinning in a goofy fashion.

"Change?" Liam stretches his hand expectantly.

Indifferently, Vladimir shrugs. "I spent it all."

"How many did you even buy?"

Again, the shrug characterized by nonchalance. "'Bout three. Could be more."

The Englishman swallows down the groan that has nearly became corporeal. "Let's just hurry." He briskly proceeds forward, but a powerful tug on the sleeve from Vladimir—the strength could have torn his arm off, or so he conceptualizes—induces him to a complete stop.

"Here, one of 'em is fer ya," the big man gruffly mutters, handing him a lollipop.

"Er, thank you, Sir Vladimir. If you had bought three, and considering how you've given one to me, I'm assuming the one's for you and the other one is for Sir Zakhar, correct?"

Vladimir nods, almost excitedly, and grips the bag tightly. "Zak would really be happy fer this. We haven't had a candy fer so long, we've forgotten how it tasted like. I wanna recover a bit of that lost memory."

Liam smiles. "I understand. Well, after we pick up the money I owe you both, you and Sir Zakhar can enjoy all the candies that you wish for. Tell me, for I'm helplessly curious, what is your ambition anyway? What do you plan to do with the large sum of money?"

Vladimir thoughtfully rubs his chin, as they walk. "Hm... I 'member we wanted... oh, yeah, we wanted ta have a house, doesn't hafta be big, just a house with a fireplace. In a place where there's loads of sunlight. And no holes, no mining sites. A place where we can rest, where we don't hafta worry 'bout money. And we're gonna have wives and children. We ain't needin' much... just enough ta live life happy."

* * *

Zakhar glowers at the enigmatic case tucked in the corner with bitter antagonism. No matter what Vladimir says, he is not mad nor mentally deranged in the slightest. He cannot be wrong when he felt those unwarranted, sporadic probes to his soul when he comes into contact with the case for an ample amount of time. He is not at all surprised that Vladimir is unable to sense it; his companion, lamentably, does not pay heed to minute details nor expends diligent effort to do as such. Vladimir is not a stupid man, he is wise and provident, but he is adamantly fixed to the general picture of things. In that aspect, Zakhar differs from Vladimir. He is vigilant to particulars, and the essence of this case is much too aberrant to neglect.

After gruesome hours of nothing out of the ordinary happening, Zakhar grows bored. He wonders what is taking the pair so long just to extract the compensation from the bank. Perhaps he should have gone with them, but there is also another thing that has bothered him incessantly: that mysterious person from yesterday. Was he simply conceiving nonsense, or was there, truly, someone there? If there was, what was his purpose?

With the arrival of the late afternoon, Zakhar, sprawled ungracefully on his narrow bed, begins to doze off.

As soon as he does, he hears a loud clang coming from the parlor.

_Finally, they're back._

Tiredly getting up from his bed, he maneuvers his way through the hallway to the parlor. He has already prepared a well-rounded complaint that would surely leave them at a lost for witty retaliations. As he enters the parlor, the first thing he spots is his breakfast plate—which he has forgotten to clean—having fallen to the ground.

Puzzled, Zakhar bends down to pick up the plate. _How did this fall?_ Other than this abnormal occurrence, the house is hauntingly silent. The stillness of it is upsetting, to the degree that he feels compelled to break it, "Vlad? Liam? Have ya returned?"

No response.

The hair in the back of his neck instinctively bristles in apprehension. It causes his heart rate to accelerate quite a bit, that his breath even quickens. Zakhar mentally shakes himself, there is no use anticipating things.

But, just as he sets the plate on the table, his keen ears detect the sound of human breathing, other than his own.

It is repressed, wary, careful.

And, it is coming from behind him.

He gulps. Is he shaking?

_Calm down, Zakhar. Calm down. This could just be Vlad or Liam._

But, why would they stay quiet?

Louder this time, he calls, "Vlad—"

The instant he spins around, a lamp is roughly smashed against his forehead. The sudden impact is debilitating, and he collapses against the table. His brain reels eccentrically, flashing through a series of incomprehensible blurs. A warm liquid trickles down from his temple.

However, before he could recover from the potent blow, he feels a fist driving in his stomach. The vigorous force temporarily dispels all air from his lungs, drawing out an involuntary splutter from him. His body is constrained to sustain the momentum of the punch, and it shudders violently.

Through the slits of his eyelids, he can only register a disjointed image of a masked man of average stature. Slipping perilously from the table, he is determined to not crumple to the ground and surrender just yet; grappling frantically for a hold of something substantial, he clenches the plate. Without yielding a second to hesitation, Zakhar strikes the plate against the man—though, in his enfeebled state, his aim is imprecise, and he hits it against his shoulder instead of the head as he had intended. The plate disintegrates to many pieces that shower down the man's arm in a torrent, disseminating at the floor.

The man is largely unaffected by the attack, but it has afforded Zakhar with enough time to scramble to his feet. The aftereffects of the forehead wound actuate a groan from him, and with his impaired vision, he is unable to foretaste the man's next move.

His opponent is evidently not appreciative of Zakhar's struggles to fight back. He steps forward, apathetically crushing the porcelain pieces beneath the soles of his feet, and pulls up his knee in a hostile manner and plunges it into Zakhar's side. The Russian man wheezes, but manages to evade the worst of the belligerent stroke by diving to the right in the nick of time.

The inflicted injuries sting unpleasantly, instigating a flame of aggression within Zakhar. He recklessly lunges forth, and catches a hold of the man's shirt. In a warlike state of mind, he clenches his fist, his knuckles rippling at the compression, and thrusts it into the flesh of the man's cheek. He delivers a few more wild swings, but the barbarous unsteadiness of the hits deteriorates his balance; when the man reciprocates with an impulsive shove, Zakhar stumbles to the side completely. Before he regain his equilibrium, the masked individual, with his fingers doubled into the palm, hammers against his back, and his leg jabs at his ankle. The relentless attacks propels him to a fall; the ground rushes eagerly to meet his face.

Cursing in Russian, Zakhar groans at the excruciating pain kindling from the bridge of the nose and unfurling extensively like veins across his forehead and the plate of his head. With his face mere centimeters from the man's feet, he judges that the size is comparatively similar to the footprint he has seen yesterday. Oddly, his shoes, as he perceives, are quite new and immaculate, signifying that the owner of them possesses decent wealth.

Before he can speculate further, the man mutters something foreign—English, perhaps—and the discontentment of the tone implies a complaint. The man, supplied with wrath as it seems, kicks him sharply in the chest. Zakhar chokes, his lips flapping at the discharge of breath, and he moans lowly when the man presses the foot.

The weight of it impedes his respiration, crushing his lungs with the intensity. As he gasps unsuccessfully for an allotment of oxygen, he hears the man snort in a derisive manner. The man says a string of words that he cannot comprehend, and then withdraws his leg—

But in counteraction, Zakhar grips onto his shoe, curling his fingers around the heels. They lock eyes for a second, each granting the other a pugnacious glare. The man swears in English, and frustrated, tries to retrieve his confiscated foot; he slaps at Zakhar's arms, but the inured Russian man does not relinquish control and bites down on his lip to endure the repeated blows.

Promptly, Zakhar pulls at the foot, and the entire body of the man is yanked to his direction. The loss of balance causes the man to drop suddenly to the ground, and he yelps. Zakhar tosses the foot aside and arduously pulls himself up. He trembles with rancor, at the agony that pricks at his head. Wiping the blood and beads of sweat at his forehead, he vehemently grabs the man by the collar. In one expeditious movement, he rains down on his opponent's forehead with his own. An explosion of pain blossoms at his brow, but he is in too much of a rage to care; the man, on the other hand, groans in distress, his eyes rolling back to expose the grisly whites of them.

"Tell me who you are!" Zakhar demands, uncompromisingly applying pressure to his clasp on the man's neck. "Whatdaya want here?"

The man mumbles something unintelligible, staggering. The Russian man is not appeased. He furiously drags his body and slams it against the wall behind them. "Who the hell are you?" he screams harshly. "I want ta know why ya came in here—"

A severe blow is dealt to his head, and a fresh pair of hands turbulently seize him from behind. In three powerful yanks—though he contends passionately—Zakhar is forced to release the man. Then, a series of vicious strikes along his skull, chest, and spine overwhelm him wholesomely, dismantling all means of resistance. Deprived of strength and engulfed with paralyzing anguish, he twitches compulsively on the ground.

_There was more of them?_

The masked men—there is an additional of two now—mutter to one another, and take turns nudging at his shuddering body disdainfully. His vision, which presently is cast toward the ground, can only perceive their feet as they search around the parlor. Disruptively they forage through Liam's furniture and items, leaving things in disarray. Occasionally, one of them would come by and kick Zakhar again to ascertain his weakened state. An audible, vocal expulsion of air is emitted from them, a rhythmic expression of glee—indeed, they are _laughing_ at him, in such a manner disparaging to his dignity.

Yet, he cannot summon the vigor to retaliate. In fact, he is unable to even lift from the floor. His limbs are spread out in an ungainly way, and they obstinately refuse to respond to him any longer; his grunts seethe from his gritted teeth, and his clenched fists shake in indignation. His body, beaten and bruised, vellicates.

Then, they drop everything abruptly. For a fleeting moment, Zakhar supposes that Vladimir and Liam have returned. But, his hope is quickly dashed, replaced with a gripping sense of dread.

They move to the hallway, and begin to bust down doors. Soon, they reach his bedroom.

_No!_ he shrieks internally, the shout echoing in the recesses of his mind. The crippling agony that is simply unbearable grasps the throne of consciousness and bends it to its will. Almost immediately, he finds himself spiraling deeper and deeper, succumbing to the raw, biting pain that gnaws at the corners of his mind. Slipping into gaping hole of darkness, all thoughts fade and shut down. His heavy eyelids begin to flutter and close, like curtains being drawn, and the final thing he sees is his bare hand uselessly outstretched, grappling at nothing but the cold, cold air.

* * *

"My, my," Liam murmurs, while flipping through a book, "thank you for accompanying to the library after all, Sir Vladimir. I believe we have wasted a lot of time researching, but that is my habit, you see. I almost always come home late due to all the time I invest at the library. What can I say in redemption, it is an incurable habit—"

"Somethin' is not right." Vladimir freezes before the house. The bag of candies he held descends to the ground, as his numbed fingers renounce their clutch. To Liam's horror, his front door has been forcibly broken down to admit unauthorized entrance.

Vladimir hurriedly rushes in, and is aghast with the terrible conditions: the furniture is, at large, reduced to fragments, and his friend—where is his friend?

Overwrought, he anxiously looks about, calling for his dear companion. In the corner of his eyes, he sees a tuft of black hair on the floor. Cautiously, he steps around the capsized table, his breath intercepted in the threshold of his throat. Then, he perceives Zakhar sprawled on the ground. A pool of red liquid encloses around him, and his crushed hand is extended toward the hallway. Behind him, he hears Liam gasp and whisper frantic prayers.

Vladimir, suppressing the unnerving sense of solicitude within him, gingerly kneels down and turns his quivering friend over. His complexion is ghastly, his face is strewn with abominable bruises and cuts; a thread of blood trails from his nostrils.

"Zak—" Vladimir swallows, "w... who did this—"

His friend suddenly grabs him by the wrist, his nails digging earnestly into the flesh. His pale lips tremble, as he struggles to articulate the words. "L-leave me... check the..."

Vladimir understands in a moment what Zakhar is trying to implore. Gently, he releases his friend, and Liam sues to the ground next to him in his place. He turns and proceeds with haste through the hallway and into the bedroom.

The beds are in order; they are untouched, even. Blankets are folded and pillows are situated as he has left it in the early morning.

But, the corner.

The empty corner.

It is an ugly desolation. So ugly that he cringes and averts his eyes.

It was their last hope. The hope that has made the bag of coins in his pocket existent. It made it possible, to escape from their previous circumstances, to acquire what they had languished for, for countless of years.

And, it is gone.

Never again would it return; his bare hands, calloused and rough, he rolls into fists.

* * *

As the night falls, a carriage slowly comes to a cessation in front of a particular building. The robust horses whinny and click their heels against the cobblestone, intermittently swishing their heads to and fro.

The tall and lean driver, with neatly tailored hair and dressed in black, sophisticated clothing, gracefully descends from the carriage; his coattails rustle like silk in the light breeze. He opens the door, and helps the passenger down.

"So, this..." the said passenger's eye scans the building with mild interest, "is the designated place, correct?" He raises his gaze to the sky. "It's getting late. If it wasn't for the Queen's specific request, I would have remained at home and retired for the night."

The pair then approach the entrance, and they encounter the supervisor in front. He regards them briefly, before recognition sparks, and he smiles crookedly; his single gold tooth shimmers eerily. "Well, if it isn't Earl Ciel Phantomhive, and his loyal butler. Welcome to Chamberlain's Auctionhouse. We've been expecting you."


End file.
